Cultivating Hope in Uncertain Times
A little while back, I scattered some poppy seeds at our local park.
I’m still choosing hope, just as I’m still looking forward to seeing those poppies bloom in our neighborhood. Some of the seeds will undoubtedly survive. Others won’t. Seeds don’t become gardens on their own. They need tending: attention, protection, and patience.
Hope is no different.
So much feels hard right now, and hope can feel like a fragile thing. Which leads me to ask: how do we tend the seeds of hope so they can grow into real healing and real change?
Pay Attention to What You’re Feeding
Hope needs nourishment, not constant alarm.
It’s easy to get swept up in bad news. There’s no shortage of headlines designed to provoke outrage or fear about what might come next. But giving all of that too much of our attention can slowly erode the very hope we need to keep going.
I’m not talking about avoiding reality altogether, just about staying informed without becoming consumed. For me, that means reading the news once a day, not watching broadcasts, and limiting how much time I spend doomscrolling. I’ve also been grateful to discover social media accounts that intentionally share good news. (Feel free to DM me if you’d like a recommendation.)
What we feed our minds matters. Hope grows best when we’re intentional about where our attention rests.
A flock of sparrows at our neighborhood park.
Stay Rooted in Your Body and the Earth
Nothing helps me feel better physically, or emotionally, than getting outside, walking, and paying attention to the natural world. I often joke that my dog is my excuse to get out the door (and she’s an excellent accountability partner), but the truth is that I need it just as much as she does.
I’ve read plenty about the science how time in nature helps us, but it mostly confirms what I already know in my body.
During winter walks here in Northern California, I watch the creek swell and recede with the storms. Trails become muddy, slick, sometimes flooded and impassable. And yet I know, from years of wandering these same paths, that in six months the creek will shrink to a fraction of its size and the trails will be baked hard by heat and dryness.
The land reminds me that cycles exist. That seasons of intensity don’t last forever. And that even the social storms we’re living through now can eventually give way to something better. The earth teaches patience in a way nothing else quite can.
Tend Hope in Community
Hope multiplies when it’s shared.
As an artist, I spend a lot of time alone. Even for an extrovert, solitude can be nourishing, but it can also become isolating, especially in tumultuous times.
I’ve been deeply encouraged by watching people in targeted communities come together to support and protect one another. I’m also grateful for conversations with those who stand beside me when I speak up, and for everyone who shows up—online and in person—when I share my work.
We need one another. Whether it’s walking with a friend, gathering at a gallery opening, or standing shoulder to shoulder in a demonstration, being physically present with other humans reminds us that we are not alone in this work.
Take Small, Faithful Actions
There are days when it feels like there is so much to do, so much injustice to confront, that I should constantly be doing more. But I also know that I am just one person.
In my garden, I can only do one task at a time: watering, weeding, transplanting. Sometimes I only have a few minutes to give. But it all adds up.
The same is true elsewhere. Sending one email to a representative may feel small, but combined with thousands of others, it matters. Sharing my thoughts here, teaching college students, or offering a kind word to a frazzled checkout clerk, each act contributes to the kind of world I want to live in.
Small actions, done faithfully, change more than we realize.
“Faithful” 10×22”
Make Space for Beauty and Meaning
Beauty reminds us why hope matters.
This is one of the reasons I make art. I’m helping to create the kind of world I want to leave to my granddaughter.
I’m realizing more and more that art isn’t an escape from what’s happening, it’s sustenance for surviving it. Beauty reminds us of what’s worth protecting, of what makes life meaningful.
When we live with art—or make it—we’re invited to slow down and truly see one thing. And through that one thing, we remember how to see the whole world again. Art touches something deep inside us, restoring and healing in ways few other things can.
An Invitation
Helping hope grow won’t be easy right now, but I’m committed to trying.
I’ll continue to be mindful about what I focus on. I’ll keep getting outside and letting the natural world steady me. I’ll gather with others and remember to extend invitations. I’ll remind myself that being one person is enough, and that it’s okay not to do more than I can carry. And I’ll keep making and sharing artwork.
In a future post, I want to explore how creativity itself can be an act of resistance, a way of choosing hope again and again.
For now, without guilt or pressure, I invite you to set a few gentle intentions. What small practices will you use to tend the seeds of hope in your own life?
I’d truly love to hear.
